MAKING IT UP AS YOU GO ALONG: NOTES FROM A BASS IMPOSTER by Bill MacCormick

The Dulwich College Colts Rugby XV of 1967 included half of Quiet Sun, one member each of Roxy Music and Matching Mole, 40% of the group 801 and the older brother of Random Hold and Peter Gabriel guitarist Dave Rhodes. “I played centre, wing or fullback,” writes Bill MacCormick. “I got as far away from those nasty forward as possible.”

        Dulwich College is a public school, of which MacCormick disapproves strongly, but he can be seen in the back row of this musical XV in a photograph reproduced early on in Making It Up As You Go Along: Notes From A Bass Imposter. Through contacts made at the school, he became a contemporary and close friend of Soft Machine and others from what became known as the Canterbury scene, finding himself among a host of musicians whose work was unlikely to find commercial success; who preferred instead to perform experimental music loosely labelled as jazz rock, almost always improvisational with uncommon time-signatures, a bit cosmic and slightly weird, to my ears anyway. 

        MacCormick has written a chirpy, self-deprecating and remarkably candid memoir of his time as a musician in this strain of Britain’s underground, its close attention to dates, places and haphazard events, many of them trivial, suggesting he dutifully kept diaries retained for decades and/or has a remarkable memory. Stints in the avant-garde groups Quiet Sun and Matching Mole are followed by 801, alongside Roxy Music’s Phil Manzanera and Brian Eno, and Random Hold who recorded for Polydor and were managed by Gail Colson, Peter Gabriel’s manager, which catapulted them briefly into the big time. When RH fired him he applied to Gail for moneys owed to him which emptied their bank account and effectively put an end to the group, and although this episode closes the book it contains references to the future throughout. 

        Interspersed among highly detailed accounts of the recording and stage careers of these bands are interesting diversions, the most unexpected MacCormick’s brief acquaintance with the actress Julie Christie, with whom he is besotted – naturally – the connection being the close friendship between her and Robert Wyatt’s girlfriend and subsequent wife Alfreda ‘Alfie’ Benge, and interviews he undertakes for Street Life, the alternative paper published between 1975-6, with Warren Beatty and US senator George McGovern among others. Furthermore, in between stints as a musician, MacCormick became a politician, campaigning on behalf of the Liberal Party and, later in life, becoming a councillor, all of which adds plenty of spice to this lively memoir. His indignation at the behaviour of the ruling classes is expressed most eloquently in the chapter that focuses on the lyrics to songs on Listen Now, 801’s only studio album.

        Throughout his musical career, MacCormick seems to have drifted through life with plenty of luck on his side, his boundless modesty conveying the idea that he wasn’t much of a musician – as indicated by the title – but was a good mixer, amiable, willing and not one to complain. Such diffidence is endearing and led him to decline an invitation to record with Richard Thompson. “Though flattered I politely declined,” he writes. “Thomson was Premier League. I was at best Conference League South. I knew my limitations.”

        MacCormick’s book is full of carefree banter like this, some of it rather over-egged, the literary equivalent of theatre’s fourth wall insofar as he takes the reader into his confidence in light-hearted asides, frequently veering off into arbitrary side-issues, many of them politically left of centre, and arcane observations about times and places, some of them no doubt gleaned from Wikipedia. There are frequent references to his older brother Ian who, as Ian MacDonald, was assistant editor at NME in the early 1970s and among the most eloquent and perceptive music writers of his generation. 

        Occupying over 100 pages at the end are 18 appendices, all of them press packs or features and reviews from the music press reproduced verbatim, many written by my old MM colleague Richard Williams, while the preceding two chapters are obituaries of musician friends (and Ian), and a “Where Are They Now” section of those still walking. With footnotes and endnotes galore, loads of black and white pictures throughout and an unreliable index, this makes for a long read, 470 pages in all, but if a fly-on-the-wall account of life as an avant-garde musician is your cup of tea it’s worth the effort. Unforgivably, however, MacCormick spells Townshend without the H. 

        Finally, a confession. It was June 1970, my first week as a staff writer on Melody Maker. Too embarrassed to admit that I was wholly unfamiliar with their music, I accepted assistant editor Williams’ summons to review Soft Machine’s Third LP, took it home and listened carefully to music which, having been raised on no-nonsense Elvis and The Beatles, was pretty much foreign to me.  

        Still, I did my best: “As the title suggests, this is Soft Machine’s third album,” I began, stating the obvious, “and their most ambitious yet” – an educated guess. “It is a double venture and features just four tracks – one per side.” So far so good but something more profound was clearly called for. “The first side, ‘Facelift’, was recorded live at the Fairfields Hall, Croydon, and starts with what could be mistaken for Mike Ratledge slowly pulling his organ to pieces key by key but soon the whole scene changes and becomes more interesting with solos from each of the group.” I went on to state that Robert Wyatt’s was “not the best voice on the British scene”, that side four was the best of the four with an “eerie space sounding organ reminiscent of 2001 Space Odyssey”, and that the whole band “blend individually as one machine. A good set for the Soft’s fans and jazz enthusiasts too,” I concluded, blandly. Richard Williams never again gave me a Soft Machine LP to review.

        This shameful episode came back to haunt me as I read MacCormick’s fascinating book, and reviewing it here offers me an opportunity to apologise deeply to Robert Wyatt, the only surviving member of the Soft Machine line-up that recorded Third. Sorry Robert. ‘Shipbuilding’ was great, by the way.